


Greedy Gods

by Cchambers



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, post breakup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cchambers/pseuds/Cchambers
Summary: AU Idea: We broke up and you wrote a book about us. It became an international best seller and I showed up to a book signing because we need to fucking talk buddy.Or, in which Oliver is a poet and Connor is his muse, whether it be good or bad.





	1. Languages

**Author's Note:**

> See end of work for notes I don't know Pal

The rule for book signings was thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds for them to explain how much they loved the book, thirty seconds to explain how much the book inspired them and changed their worldview, and thirty seconds for Oliver to say thank you.

Oliver hated those thirty seconds.

Bonding was easy for him, as if he'd had chemicals in his system that automatically reacted with other people. He could talk to someone in the grocery store as if they were his lifelong best friend, charm his editor into giving him another extension on a deadline.  
Talking was easy, and he'd do it all day, if he could.

Annalise, his publisher, was watching from across the room, skimming through the crime section and raising her eyes to stare at him every five minutes or so when he had a conversation just edging forty seconds. She must've kept a stopwatch or something.

Annalise had been with him since day one, when he walked into AK publishing house with a wrinkled and tear stained manuscript for _Greedy Gods_. He'd given her his soul in the form of poems and stories, words he'd never be able to say. She'd taken it eagerly, eating it up, devouring it like a carnivore.

Oliver never even remotely considered publishing it- it was Michaela, who pushed him into the world like a mother bird kicking it's child out of the nest and waited for it to learn how to fly.

_"It'll be good for you," she'd said, "maybe it will give you closure."_

_"What about him?" Oliver'd asked, subconsciously looking for a photo, for a person, who was no longer there._

_"Forget about him."_

And he did. He'd tried his best, blocked out the memories and threw them away. It was extremely difficult; memories clung to him, taking his sleep and speaking whenever he gave them the chance. (Which was everyday, every interview, every signing.)

Everyday like today.

Oliver had too many questions about him. _Did he lose sleep, too? Did he think about them, too? Did he think about what he ruined, what he lost?_

Did he think about Oliver the same way Oliver thought about him?

"Thank you so much," a random voice brought Oliver back into the bookstore, a teenage boy staring down at him and holding out a copy, waiting for it to be signed.

"Of course," said Oliver, scribbling his name across the inside. He managed to wear a mask of a smile- forget about him, Oliver. Please. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it."

"The way you write is so real," the boy added, "it's so inspiring. I want to write like you someday."

Oliver's heart melted - hearing people say this was always the most inspiring, gave his ego a little, unnecessary, boost. He looked up at the teenager, and Oliver saw himself in his glasses, the mess of dark hair and the Star Wars tee shirt.

"You'll get there," Oliver whispered. "I promise."

It was more than thirty seconds.

"Next!" called the Barnes and Noble worker.

"Can you sign my favorite poem, please?"

Oliver recognized the voice. It rang in his ears like church bells, like warning sirens. It was a song, a song Oliver loved but could never listen to. It was calming and worrying at the same time, like watching a thunderstorm.

Oliver recognized the hand. It grazed against his, intertwined their fingers. It ran down his back, it worked its magic and Oliver was entranced. It was a hand Oliver knew as well as his own, as if it were a part of him, branded on his soul.

Oliver recognized the man. He'd memorized his face, engraved it into stone if he ever forgot it. It was a face painted with danger- those devious dark brown eyes, lit up like gems whenever sunlight poured it them, softened whenever they met Oliver's. He cut his hair, but Oliver could never forget the way it felt when he ran his fingers through it.

"Connor," it came out in the form of a strangled whisper.

"Oliver." He held his own copy of _Greedy Gods_ \- a thing he was never supposed to see, a thing kept secret from him.

A thing entirely focused on him.

"Go ahead," hissed Connor, his face unreadable. "Sign it." He slid the book across the table, his eyes dark and stormy.

The world faded away, and all Oliver saw was Connor; he was wearing blinders. Connor was standing in front of him- passages, poems, memories, swam through his mind, crashing into him. The air left Oliver's lung, his heartbeat ringing in his ears.

"Next!" The worker said, but they were frozen, stuck in the bookstore while their minds were somewhere else- the apartment, the bed, each other's arms.

"I need a break," Oliver didn't turn around to face the workers. He heard Annalise's heels clicking against the floor as she raced toward them, attacking the situation head on and shouting orders.

"Mr. Hampton-"

"He comes, too. I know him."

Oliver knew Connor Walsh, because Connor was Him.

Connor was the book.  
-  
"Connor, I'm so fucking sorry."

The wall was cool against his back, but the room was hot, the air holding him by the neck and choking him. They were trapped in the green room, trapped in a standoff.

Connor was different. He was a cold, sharp and jaded, his edges jagged like rocks on the shore. He stared at Oliver patiently, his shoulders sagged, arms folding over his chest. He was a hugger, reaching for things and bringing them close to himself- he needed something to hold onto, something calming and soft and reassuring.

Oliver was that thing, once.

"Connor," Connor crooned, turning on his heels, "that's my name, isn't it? Or it Cole, Coby, Carter, Calvin? I could go by a lot of names, thanks to you."

_Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck-_

"You read it, didn't you?"

"Every passage," Connor's words were shaky, his jaw clenching. He was about to cry, about to break, and a part of Oliver ached, screamed. _Go over to him, help him_.

No. Not anymore.

"I read it in one night," Connor added, "one fucking terrible night. The poems and the stories and the words you used, it hit me, like bullets. Like you were speaking to me."

If only he felt what it was like to write it, to relive the moments, the fights. To close the laptop and cry himself to sleep. To see everyone analyzing and contemplating, trying to decode things that weren't their business, things that were private.

"Connor," Oliver started, "I feel terrible."

Connor straightened, and his voice was hollow. It sent a sick shiver down Oliver's spine. He could be cruel, when he wanted to. "Good, because you should." He leaned in closer, running a hand through his hair.

"Connor," Oliver kicked himself as his voice slightly raised with his permission.

"You don't get to be angry right now!" Connor snapped as quickly as a whip. "But I, I get to be angry, because you- you never told me."

Oliver was silent.

"Is that what you really think of me, Ollie?" Connor was sputtering, words spilling out him, "Is that how you feel about me?" He paused, choking, and when he spoke again a crack sliced his voice in half. "Do you _hate_ me?"

He could never hate him.

Anger boiled inside of his chest, tied knots in his stomach, but Oliver never let it rise.

_You love him, you love him, you love him-_

"You never let me tell you my favorite poem." Connor said.

Oliver looked up- tears streamed down Connor's face, but his frantically wiped them away, keeping them bottled up inside.

Oliver wanted to cry and he wanted to scream but-

But that was what the book was for.

The book was his screams, his cries, his sadness, his agonizing pain.

And now Connor finally heard it.

"What- what is it?"

Their eyes lingered to the copy of Greedy Gods on the table, to the copy still tightly gripping in Connor's white knuckled hand.

" _Languages_."

" _I wanted him._

_I wanted the feeling of his heart in my hands, melting like ice in the fresh sun_

_I wanted the way he touched me, as if my skin were marble and he was an artist who carved every inch of me until I became his vision_

_His fingers painted my skin and I felt waves of euphoria crash into me, powerful waves holding me down and shoving water into my lungs_

_And he was the rain clouds, the bolts of lightning, and I was the water, swaying and striking against every touch, every kiss along my chest_

_I imagined the clouds rolling in as he said my name and I screamed his as if it were the only word I knew, as if it were my every thought_

_We were a sea storm_

_We were both such powerful things, angry at what the world threw at us, angry at each other because_

_Because it was hard for him to say such simple things, with such simple meanings_

_I love you_

_I need you_

_Don't leave_

_He didn't speak this language but it was all I knew, I knew the words and the phrases and I knew it as well as I knew him_

_He spoke words of passion and anger, pent up inside of his steel heart until my hands traveled down his chest and he sang them, like hymns_

_It was as if he kept them all bottled up into he exploded like supernovas, dying brightly and dangerously_

_We were each other's religion, we were all we believed in,_

_But believing does not last for long, it last as long as the night, as long as a dream_

_It is a good, pure thing that must come to an end_

_We spoke different languages_

_Mine of love as I pulled him close, as we spent the night in the cold bedroom and ignored the changing world_

_His of anger and resentment to the outside, because a boy like him has never experienced anything pure and he is made of metal- silver, steel, cool and unbreakable_

_I was glass, I was porcelain, I was things made to break and neither of us knew until his hand touched mine and we crashed into the wall like cars on the open road_

_Languages of love and anger"_

⁃ _Greedy Gods, page 72._

Oliver wrote it the night the first night without him. The bed was cold, vacant and vast. Connor's side of the bed was abandoned, and loneliness took his place.

"Connor."

They wanted to scream, but they only spoke in whispers.

"I'm sorry, Oliver." Connor said. "I'm sorry I made you do this."

"Connor-" it was the only word Oliver could say.

Connor was gone.

He left.

Again.

Oliver's phone pinged in his pocked, the vibration muffled by his jeans.

_Meet me at Angie's-_

_Connor._


	2. Cavern Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really proud of this chapter. Thanks for reading!

_He drank with whiskey coated lips, and his eye were the color of bitterness; black and desolate, yet, when he looked at me, they melted into dark chocolate._

_I was told not to love him, so I watched from afar._

_He used his own light to brighten the room._

_A light for himself?_

_There was no such thing._

_He was as dark as the starless sky._

_As dark as his cavern eyes._  
_⁃ Greedy Gods, page 25. 'Cavern Eyes'_

All Connor could do was stare.

He'd get lost in eyes, in looks, as if he were absorbed in a book, furiously flipping the pages, devouring the scenes.

He'd research the color of someone's eyes; blue, like icy lakes in the winter; green, fields of flowers and blooming trees in late spring.

Oliver's were brown, but Connor could never stare at them for too long- his eyes were the sun, if you looked, even if it were just for a mere second, it hurt.

Looking at Oliver hurt.

A punch in the stomach, a swift kick to the chest. It left Connor breathless, doubling over and gasping for air like a flopping fish out of water. He'd collapse the floor, clutching, curling himself up in pain.

Sitting across from him, the pain was new, an old illness resurfacing, leaving the begin of a migraine drill into his skull and the craving of a dark room, of being alone. Connor had been alone since the breakup.

There'd been one night stands, waking up beside a stranger in a random apartment downtown. First dates, trying to find a mold to replace Oliver, like crafting a project from clay, trying to remember a recipe.

But Connor never found what he was looking for, never found someone who had everything he needed and checked off all the boxes on the list.

"That's because your list is Oliver," Michaela had told him, looking at him through her glass of wine, picking him up after another blind date- set up by her, of course- gone wrong. "You're still in love with him."

Even though Michaela was both his and Oliver's best friend, she kept her ties to both of them, not letting it get in the way of her social life. Connor always fought the urge to ask, "How's Oliver doing? Have you seen him?"

_Does he miss me?_

"No," Connor lied through gritted teeth. Lying came to him as naturally as breathing, as if it were a drug pulsing through his veins. As if it were a sickness. "I'm not. Oliver and I- we ended on rough terms, Michaela."

Connor didn't even remember how it ended himself. He'd dig through their relationship, now in the past, and try to figure out where it all went wrong. Who was to blame? Who changed the course of the story?

Who hurt the most?

They were in the place they met. They were in their safe haven, a sanctuary, holy and hollowed ground. The bell on the door was a church bell, and the coffee was holy water. It was their sanctuary.

But, sitting in a corner booth with Oliver, staring out the window at Angie's, Connor felt nothing but fear.

A deep, underlying fear. Paranoia. Worry. Connor worried- too much. It came as naturally to him as lying.

The holy ground was now covered in landmines. You had to say things carefully and think before you spoke. You had to watch where you placed your feet, where you stood.  You had to make sure no one else was hurt, blown to bits.

"It's good to see you," Oliver said, but he was still staring at his Americano.

"Yeah, it's good to see you, too," Connor said, but he was still staring out the window.

They couldn't look at each other.

Sometimes, Connor thought it was all they did: stare at each other, look away when one caught the other's gaze. Connor knew he did it; in the hard times, on the nights he couldn't sleep. The nights he worried.

Connor knew Oliver did the same because of the poems.

Why did Connor even have them come here? So he could scream at Oliver again? So he could watch Oliver calmly nod in response, and say "I know, Connor. I know."

 _Yeah_ , Connor thought bitterly, _no fucking shit_.

 _He knows, I know, everyone knows_.

Michaela tried to hide her copy of the book from him. She kept it hidden in a drawer in her bathroom when he was around, as if it were drugs or something she stole.

When she walked in and saw him, ugly crying on the couch with the book close to her chest, she sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He put down the book. "I won't read it again."

Connor lied.

"Can I get sued?" Oliver asked, out of the blue. Connor's skin was starting to cool as his cheek squished against the window glass, his coffee starting to turn lukewarm.

No response.

"Connor," Oliver said, "look at me."

Connor looked at him, and it hurt; he hid the pain, tried his hardest to conceal a wince. Things were different now- Oliver did something, and Connor didn't know if he could ever understand.

"Oh," Oliver said, as if he seeing him for the first time- even though they only saw each hours before. His eyes darted across Connor's face, down his body. "You shaved."

Connor ran a hand across his freshly clean jaw, feeling the smooth skin where stubble once was. He'd lost the beard awhile back, deciding he needed to change something. It wasn't like he was going to shave his head or anything, but it needed to be different.

He needed to be different.

"I did," Connor answered, switching the subject. Oliver was still looking at him. "Anyway, what were you saying?"

"Could I get sued?" He was playing with his hands, rubbing the corner of his mug. "For the book, for using you. The idea of you."

 _Ah yes, the book_. The book Connor wanted to burn, watch the flames flicker and the ashes pile. The book Connor wanted to keep close, because it was a piece of Oliver.

"No," he said, "I- I don't know, Oliver."

"I thought you were done with law school," Oliver said.

"I'm not."

And they drifted back into silence, like a ship on the waves. Awkward, rigged silence, only interrupted by a cough or a clearing throat as one failed to muster the courage to say something.

Screaming was over, now it was silence.

"You're a great writer," Connor whispered, as if it was poison on his tongue, a secret shared between them.

"I know," Oliver replied, and his eyes widened before he shook his head, stammering a response. "I mean, thanks. It means a lot to me, Connor, that you think so."

For a moment, it seemed as if Oliver's hands didn't know where to be, lingering on the table-

Nearly reaching out towards Connor's.

"Why'd you write it?"

The hands were gone, put away underneath the table, resting on Oliver's lap. His face was blank. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Connor fought the urge to scream, the urge to spew out ugly comments and snark.

This was Oliver, he was talking to Oliver.

He loved him.

"We didn't speak, Connor. We didn't say anything... We just. We drifted apart."

_And who let that happen, Connor?_

"There were things I didn't tell you and things you didn't tell me," Oliver added, his voice almost breaking, his composure turned off at the click of a switch. "We didn't tell each other things."

Connor tried, he tired so hard, he poured his soul and what was left of his energy into feelings, deep, suffocating feelings and he felt as if he'd exploded because he needed to tell-

He didn't tell Oliver things.

He couldn't figure out what to say and how to say it.

Did he spill it out, form a jumbled mess into words and wait?

Did he sing it, listen as the notes bounced through the air and lit up the room, relieved the weigh from his body?

Did he let himself dissolve and melt at Oliver's feet?

Nothing.

He said nothing.

He didn't tell Oliver things.

"The book was my way of telling you things. But I never thought you'd listen. I never thought you'd see how angry I was or how sad- no, devastated." Oliver paused, inhaling a deep breath and grabbing another handful of words from the pile.

"You know how therapist always tell you to write a letter to someone, and then rip it up, burn it, just get it out of your life? Never see it again?"

 _Funny_ , Connor thought, _my therapist told me to do that about you_.

"That's what the book was. It was my letter. I burnt it, I tore it up, I threw it into the sea. But it always came back, like a boomerang."

They looked at each other.

"It always came back to you." Oliver said.

_Me. It came back because of me._

Oliver shrunk against the book, releasing a shaky breath. Vulnerability seeped through his edges, as if he were a target, waiting for a bullseye.

Connor wanted to hold him in his arms, on the couch of his apartment, the lights turned off.

That was a memory.

"You told me things," Connor said.

"I told you things," Oliver replied. He leaned forward, and Connor got lost in eyes. The color of coffee beans, the smell of them roasting strong in his mouth. "And now it's your turn."

"Oliver," Connor said.

Tell him, screamed his mind, tell him tell, tell him.

"I want to take things slow," Oliver explained, "slowly. As slowly as you want. Baby steps, Connor. I want baby steps."

"Why?"

Oliver's voice was as soft as the wind, as soft as his touch. "Because I miss you- I miss having you in my life. Talking to you, standing next to you, just being with you."

Connor craved it more than anything. Craved it like a cannibal craved flesh, craved it like a plant craving sunlight.

"Just friends?"

"Just friends."

Connor lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was good! Connor comes a lot easier than me than Oliver TBH. And thank you so much for the compliments! They're probably the reason I updated this.... Anyway, I don't really have an update schedule, but I'll try my best. Once again, thank you!- Amanda


	3. Pretty Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I couldn't find the time and or inspo to update! Thanks for waiting and reading!

  
_Pretty boy, did the world ever tell you what you could and couldn't do?_  
Pretty boy, did they just stare at you?  
Pretty boy, you've got ice in your veins  
Pretty boy, nothing ever stays the same  
Greedy Gods, page 1. ‘Pretty Boy’

It was the night they met.

He was watching him from the other side of the room, peeking at him through the crowd. They were eagerly staring at him as if he were shining, glowing under the lights of the gallery like a gem, a jewel. He held the room in his hand right as the door shut behind him, he captured eyes and slipped them into his pocket as they saw his appearance. He knew he was attractive; there was a gleam to him, as if he used his looks for power, for pride.

Oliver was torn between looking at two beautiful things: the art, and the stranger.

“Oliver!” Michaela called, standing on her tiptoes to wave at him. The champagne she was holding bounced of her glass and onto the floor, avoiding her dress. “Oliver, come here!”

He weaved through people, bumping elbows and chest, hastily apologizing. The lights glistening on the art reflected off of his glasses, and he blinked; he needed new glasses, but student loans made sure he looked and walked as if he were blind as a bat. Oliver buried his nerves, shook them out with every step.

It’s fine, Oliver. You’re fine.

He didn’t belong here.

This party was not his scene.

Michaela dragged him, his editor at the Times pushed him into her car.

“It’s a fluff piece,” Oliver had said.

“It’s art,” James argued, not even looking up from his computer, “You like art, don’t you? Just get a few quotes from pretty people and take Wes, have him snap a couple of pictures. It’ll be a breeze.”

Oliver deserved a raise.

Michaela was talking her way out of a conversation with a white boy in an ascot and loafers that may’ve costs more than Oliver’s tie. “Oliver!” She perked up as she spotted him coming towards her; he was finally free from the crowd, his nerves simmering slightly. “I found someone for you to interview,” she added in a sing-song voice.

Oh, he thought, thank god.

Michaela was set to work at her fiance’s family PR firm, until she realized she belonged in a courtroom, not behind a desk. It was also due to the fact Aiden cheated on her, but if you didn’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

“Who is it?” Oliver asked. He guided Wes over, who stood out even more than Oliver- in his ugly-cute brown suit, lugging his camera bag and tripod. The social media, attention hungry guest pecked at him, vultures eating away at a corpse.

Wes and Oliver deserved raises.

Michaela smirked, sipped at her drink. She had something up her sleeve, side eyeing the crowd Oliver was watching earlier. They’d form into a small, tight knit circle. “Him,” she said.

The beautiful stranger.

“Connor Walsh,” Michaela said, her voice dripping off as if the name had multiple meanings, “he’s going to the same law school as me, his mom is filthy rich. Oh, and he’s an ex model- Aiden represented him. A pretty boy.”

Yes, Oliver thought, pretty.

Everyone at this party was very pretty.

“Go on,” Michaela shoved him headfirst into the crowd.

Connor was leaning against the wall, holding a drink. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he wore it so naturally it was as if he were a second skin- Oliver hated suits, wanted to spend forever in his sweaters and jeans. Connor nodded and gave a brief chuckle as he was bombarded with questions, anecdotes. His mouth was a straight line, and his eyes were bored, unenthusiastic. He was putting on an act, setting up a front.

Oliver wanted to pull it off and see the real him.

“Connor,” Michaela’s hand suddenly appeared on Oliver’s shoulder; she was trying to calm him down, “this is the journalist I was telling you about.”

Connor became alert at the sound of her voice, lifting up his head and turning to them.

At first, Oliver never believed in love at first sight.

“Oliver,” Connor said his name, his dead eyes coming to life, a smile coming onto his features, interested. “You’re Oliver Hampton, right?”

Oliver forgot how to speak.

Michaela smiled.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He extended his hand- was it sweaty? He’d sweat when he was nervous. “I’m a journalist for the Times. Which you probably already knew…” Oliver trailed off. He had a bad habit of saying things people already knew- he had a lot of bad habits, actually.

Connor’s crowd narrowed their focus on Oliver when he wasn’t looking, jealous, maybe. They craved Connor’s attention, and Oliver didn’t even have to try. At first, he didn’t believe in love at first sight.

“I read your article on how climate change would affect the city,” Connor said, impressed. “It was very eye opening.”

“Oh,” Oliver dissolved, trying to keep himself upright. Connor had taken his anxiety and rolled it into a ball, threw it in the trash. “Thanks.”

Connor glanced at the crowd, finished his drink. He cleared his throat with his free hand; his dark hair fell into his dark eyes. “Well, let’s go somewhere that’s quiet, shall we?”  
-  
At first, he didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Connor was latched onto him, his hands in his hair, running down his back. He touched Oliver as if he were greedy, couldn’t get enough. He touched Oliver as if he were afraid he was going to leave, walked away and never look back.

Oliver’s thoughts were a blur of words and euphoria, a tingly feeling spreading through him. His hands, holding Connor’s face, curling into the fabric of his suit. Connor smelled like vodka and cologne- a hint of cigarette? Of nerves?

Oliver didn’t know and Oliver didn’t care.

They were pressed against the wall of the bathroom. Oliver had never done something so public, tightly contained in the handicap stall, drunk on adrenaline. He was torn between figuring out if he reached the top or sank to the bottom: making out with a pretty boy in a bathroom at a party.

“You’re fun to kiss,” Connor was saying, Connor was laughing. His smile was boyish, devious- Oliver committed it to memory, that smile. It would be his downfall, his weakness.

Oliver mumbled back a compliment, a thanks, but his voice was distant. Everything was moving fast, as if he were in a speeding car, seeing the world through the windows. Connor was enchanted with him, and he was magic, pulling Oliver in just like he did with that crowd.

Magic, magnetic.

So magnetic Oliver forgot he had a story to cover.

“Fuck!”

Connor jumped off of him, his back hitting the stall with a thud. His jacket was falling off, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He ran a hand through his messy hair, sighing and gasping for air. “What? You okay, Oliver?”

“My story,” oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. How had he- he was so stupid. “I need to, I gotta get that done.” His phone had three missed calls, all from Wes. “I was supposed to get a quote from you.”

“Oh,” Connor looked up from buttoning his shirt, “well, I thought the party was great.” He was red, but Oliver didn't know if it was from making out or blushing. Connor didn't seem the type to blush.

“I'll write that,” said Oliver.

Connor turned on his heels, patting Oliver on the shoulder.

Oliver was a storyteller and a lover of stories.

Connor Walsh was a story he wanted to read.

“Oliver,” he called as the door shut.

“Yes?”

Connor winked, “Ollie, write about me someday.”  
-  
“Connor Walsh,” Annalise said.

She slid a file over the desk, her nails tapping on the surface. Annalise changed, like the tides, the moon. She barely smiled, and if she did it was an almost cruel smile, entirely in her favor. She smiled when she won.

Oliver was scared of her, sometimes.

Times like now.

“What about him?” Oliver said. He couldn't put off any fear, any knowledge of what was happening.

“Don't play dumb with me, Oliver.” Annalise’s voice was flat, unsurprised. Her nails still tapped a melody. “We both know what this is about.” She relaxed in her office chair, and gestured at the file. “Go ahead, take a look.”

Pictures of Connor, from his modeling days. Pictures of Connor, at parties and his college graduation. Pictures of Connor, his arm wrapped around Oliver’s waist. Pictures of Connor’s apartment, where he lived.

It stung, like a fresh wound. Blood still seeped through and the bandages were peeling off his skin. Annalise knew.

“I can explain,” Oliver started to think of things to say, things to lie about. “We- we’re friends, Annalise. I met-”

“Shut up,” Annalise raised a finger, sighing. Oliver noticed the copy of Greedy Gods on his desk as her gaze flickered to it.

“Annalise-”

“The book is about him, isn't it?” She asked, though they both knew the answers. Annalise’s face was unreadable. “The poems and short stories. All of it.”

Oliver’s tongue was ripped from his mouth, he was utterly silent.

Oh god, she knew.

“Frank’s very good at finding people,” Annalise admitted, nonchalantly shrugging. “It's the only reason I keep him around, to be quite honest.”

Oliver pictured Connor unlocking his apartment, and Frank lurking in the hallway, camera in hand. It twisted his stomach.

“Oh, and Bonnie manages your social media presence.” Annalise added, “You still have photos of him on your old account, the one you made before becoming a bestseller.”

Fuck fuck fuck-

“I want you to write about him,” Annalise said.

It took a different turn, and Oliver crashed.

“What-”

Annalise cut him off again, “I want you to write about him.”

“I already did,” Oliver stifled a laugh, “you just said that…”

Annalise put her hands together, and she was tired. Oliver knew she was about to address him as if he were an idiot- maybe he was, in her eyes.

“He's your muse Oliver,” she leaned in slightly, “milk it, use it to your advantages.”

Oh, the thoughts came together like puzzle pieces.

Oh, she wants me to write another book.

“What do you want it to be about?” He asked.

Annalise smiled.

“I want it to be about Connor Walsh- everything. You and Connor, rebuilding what he broke.”

It was literature gold.

“I'm not going to use him,” Oliver said. That crossed a line.

“It's not using him,” Annalise argued, “it's inspired by him.”

It was the same damn thing.

She slid another thing across the desk.

“That's how much you'd make if you wrote another book.”

I am not using him for money.

“I'll think about it,” Oliver said.

“That's all you need to do.”

Oliver left after shaking Annalise's hand, abandoning the check.

He had one question.

What was he going to tell Connor?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm very proud of this chapter. I love the feel of it and the atmosphere and the dynamics between the characters. Comments appreciated, and thanks for reading!


	4. Rewrite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is shorter than my other chapters but I have no idea what else to do with it and I can't figure out what to add so enjoy this garbage thanks! It's in the past, when Connor and Oliver were still together and the book wasn't a thing, really.

_ You unravel like a book, _

_ ripped pages thrown away. _

_ Spine tearing  _

_ at the seams  _

_ Please, love,  _

_ let me rewrite  _

_ You. _

 

  * __Greedy Gods, page 21. “Rewrite’__



 

 

He gave too much attention to the details.

 

The sheets under him were soft, egyptian cotton, 500 thread count. They were an off white, or maybe he’d dirtied them. He never washed the sheets; he was lazy. The sun was out, after a week of on and off rain. It was hard to know if it was okay to trust the sky again, but the sun was warm on his face, his skin. Water was running from the shower, steam fogging the bathroom mirror. Oliver was in the shower.

 

Oliver. 

 

Connor was holding Oliver’s notebook. It was old, delicate, but his grip was tight. The spine was fraying, and the black cover had faded a few shades. Oliver’s name was scribbled on a label sticker in hasty cursive; his signature. The pages were yellow, lined.

 

He gave too much attention to details.

-

“Gotta go,” Oliver slipped out of the bed and onto the floor, his hand sliding down Connor’s arm as he grabbed him, begged like a small child. He smiled, “I have a deadline, Connor.”

 

“Why do you write for the paper anyway?” Connor had asked, in all earnest. The heater was broken, the sheets off of him; maybe, if he revealed to Oliver what’d he be missing, he’d stay. “You hate talking to people, and you hate your boss,” he paused, shrugging. “You always complain about your job, to me, at least. I get the burden of it.”

 

Oliver looked over his shoulder, stuffing things into his messenger bag. He rolled his eyes. “It was a backup plan, Connor, and I make a decent amount of money.” He sighed, and gestured towards the penthouse. “We can’t all be born rich- or attractive.”

 

Oh, yes, Connor thought, the modeling days. He’ll never let get of the modeling days.

 

“I think you’re gorgeous,” Connor had said.

 

Oliver stopped packing, closing his mouth and opening it again, like a pattern. He was failing to hide a blush, stop a laugh. When Oliver was flustered, he played with his glasses. 

 

He was playing with his glasses.

 

“I have to go, Connor.”

 

“I know that,” Connor propped himself against the headboard and shooed him away. “Go on, Ollie, change New York with your- what is your story about again?” 

 

Oliver repeated the answer for the second time, “The French embassy.” 

 

_ Yes _ , Connor thought,  _ I know _ .

 

_ I just wanted you to stay for a minute longer _ .

 

“Well,” Connor trailed off, turning his back to Oliver and pulling the sheets up, “go change the world with your story on the French embassy.”

 

Oliver’s shoes scuffed the hardwood floors, and the door let in warm air. 

 

“Connor, babe, I think you’re gorgeous too!”

 

Oliver left, and Connor was blushing.

 

When he was flustered, he’d smile.

 

Connor was smiling.

-

That was how they ended up here.

 

The notebook fell of Oliver’s bag as he rushed out of the penthouse; it caught Connor’s eye and he picked it up, kept it on his nightstand until he decided what to do with it. 

 

That was a week ago.

 

A week ago, he read it.

 

“Ollie,” he called, his heart picking up in his chest. What if he just threw the notebook away and they never addressed it? Oliver would just think he lost it in the chaos of the streets and Connor would just lie- he was extremely good at lying.

 

“What is it, babe?” Oliver’s voice drowned out the shower, carrying into the bedroom.  

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“Now?” Oliver asked, but the water stopped running bluntly and came to a trickle, “Is something wrong- did you do something?” 

 

He came out of the bathroom, water dripping down his body, into his face from his dark hair. His glasses were foggy from steam, and he was preoccupied with wiping them on his towel. 

 

Connor held the notebook up as if it were a damned thing, forbidden and kept secret; he felt exposed, a teenager caught hiding cigarettes under his bed, porn magazines concealed on the bookshelf. “We need to talk about this,” he said.

 

“Fuck,” Oliver muttered. The glasses were put aside, and he squinted at the notebook, like he didn’t believe it was his. “Connor, I- wait, where the hell did you even get that?”

 

Was Oliver upset? Angry?

 

_ Connor _ , a voice in his head interrupted,  _ you’re a fucking idiot _ .

 

“It fell out of your bag,” Connor replied; suddenly, it was hard to do his favorite thing: look at Oliver. It fell out of your bag last week."   
  
Oliver was angry or he was sad or he was-   
  
Connor didn't know.   
  
"You've- you've had it for a week?"   
  
He messed up.   
  
Oliver was quiet for a moment, processing. Then, he said.   
  
"Did you read it?"   
  
Connor didn't mean to it.   
  
He really, really didn't.   
  
But he saw Oliver's signature, and he ripped the notebook open and devoured it, like a hungry animal, starving and craving.    
  
"I'm so sorry." Connor was never good at apologizing- he was wicked and cruel, deviously smiling as he broke hearts.   
  
But he never wanted to break Oliver's.   
  
Oliver might've not meant to, but he was smiling, grinning. He was playing with his glasses again. "Um, so what did you think of it?"   
  
It was the most beautiful, touching thing Connor had ever seen.   
  
No one talked about him the way Oliver did.   
  
No one-   
  
No one ever loved Connor the way Oliver did.   
  
"It was um, really nice."   
  
"Nice?"   
  
He'd never tell Oliver, though.   
  
"You," Oliver said, "you said you wanted me to write about you someday."   
  
"And?"   
  
"I did."   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this was good, and I should've made it longer, but whatever. I published this anyway cause I really wanted to update weekly, instead of forgetting about it! I hope I can make up for it next chapter- plus with a bonus scene I have planned! Again, thank you, and comments are appreciated!


	5. I Think He Misses Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's been like a month and I'm really sorry for the wait I'm a mess anyway enjoy! Also nothing's italicized because my phone is garbage and I'm lazy so have fun with that.

My boy was silver this time,   
and he had opal eyes,  
a diamond smile,  
but I missed my golden boy  
and his Midas hands and his ruby eyes  
Greedy Gods, page 16. ‘I think he misses me.’

 

He was at Connor's door.

Memories peered at him through the peek hole: their first time, feeling so safe in Connor's arms, so unstoppable. The first I love you, mumbled in his sleep, his face squished into the pillow. "You're gorgeous," Connor had said, and Oliver believed him, believed in this, felt it in his bones, deep down.

It was not hard to believe in something.

It was hard to believe in something broken.

The memories swerved down a darker path; their first fight, Oliver saying something he wasn't supposed to, Connor raising his voice. Little arguments, bickering like an old couple. Ups and downs.

Their relationship ended in the living room.

Their relationship collapsed onto the floor and bled out.

He was at Connor's door.

Annalise's nudge was gentle yet harsh, like a comment from a helicopter mother. But Oliver pushed himself here, got in his car and left his body as it drove down the streets and parked in his old spot.

If Connor wasn't a fun of the idea of one book, what would a second do to him? Would it jump him in a street corner, leave him with a black eye and damaged pride? Would it sour Oliver in his eyes, and any chance of being something- friends, Oliver reminded himself- gone?

Oliver wasn't even sure of a second book himself. Writing the first was emotionally draining enough, reliving and revealing, digging through his relationship like a scavenger for treasure. He was tired.

Was this all that his career would be? One book about relationships after another? Was he expected to go and fetch man after man just to write sappy and sad poems about them?

I'm a good person, Oliver told himself. A great person.

Connor always said I was.

Oliver knocked on the door, once, softly. It was late; Connor was always a heavy sleeper, as if he dove into it to escape the noises of being awake.

Oliver swung the bottle of wine, shifted in place. Should he have brought a flowers?

  
Flowers for what, Oliver? What are you, his boyfriend?

Not anymore, he replied.

The man who opened the door wasn't Connor.

His hair was fair, his tone body exposed under the thin t shirt he was wearing; it was wet and clung to his skin, and he reminded Oliver of the guys you saw on bags from teenage clothing stores. He examined Oliver, tilting his head at the sight of the wine. Model Man- the nickname Oliver assigned him in his mind- sighed.

"Well," he said, "you're not the Chinese delivery guy."

Oliver wanted to curl into a hole and die.

"No, I'm, uh, not."

It was a silent standoff, an intimidating battle. Model Man was baring his teeth in the form of a cold, slightly confused glare and Oliver summoned enough courage to straighten himself and not drop everything and run.

Of course, he thought, of course Connor would be having sex the moment I decide to tell him something important. Of fucking course.

Oliver just wished it wasn't with Model Man.

"This is Connor Walsh's place, right?" Oliver asked, lying through his teeth. Come on, you're a writer. Write a story. "I'm one of his law school classmates?"

Model Man stared blankly, "He never told me he was in law school."

Oh, it's okay. He never told me things, either.

"What's going on out there?"

Connor's call came from the bedroom, like a warning siren ringing loud in Oliver's ears. Model man whirled to face Connor, and Oliver regretted his choice to stay.

He could do this tomorrow, invite Connor to lunch and break the news to him as if he were ripping off a band aid; fast and easy, painful but quick. Maybe they could go back to Angie's.

"One of your law school friends is here!" Model Man replied cooly, condescendingly.

Connor huffed, "Michaela, and I say this in the nicest way possible, can you go the fuck away? Call me in the morning?" He added, "Oh, and Asher, if it's you, you better be here to pay me back. If not, fuck you."

Oliver's voice crack wasn’t reassuring to himself, "It's not Michaela, Connor!"

Something crashed in the bedroom and the hardwood floors shouted as Connor appeared, slipping against them, soaking wet and hastily throwing on a pair of boxer briefs. His eyes were wide with shock and he shook his hair out of his face.

"Ollie?"

Model Man tisked and nodded, "Oh, so you do know him."

The wine was set down on the floor, and Oliver raised his hands in surrender, praying they weren't shaking. "Listen, I can come back- I'm so sorry for interrupting... whatever this is."

Connor’s eyes bounced between Model Man and Oliver, calmly analyzing what was happening in front of him. He seemed to be the calmest person there.

Oliver knew he wasn't.

Finally, he shook his head and turned to Model Man. Connor pointed at the open door.

"Yeah, you can go," he stated nonchalantly, as if Model Man was an unwelcome guest rather than a one night stand.

Model Man laughed exasperatedly, aloof. "You're- you're kidding, right? I- I don't even have pants on?"

Connor looked down, confirming it. His devilish smirk arrived, curling on the edge of his lips. Oliver hated and loved it. It exhausted and energized him.

How many times had Connor given him that goddamn smirk?

"Get your things and leave," he said, stepping back and extending his arm. "Ollie, come in, please."

This was not how it was supposed to be.

Oliver abandoned the wine and charged to the couch, averting his eyes from the bedroom, from the unmade bed, from the clutter of clothes on the floor.

Their relationship ended in the living room.

Model Man scurried around the apartment and hastily gathered his things, muttering curse words under his breath all the while.

Before leaving, he said, "Goodbye, Connor."

Connor narrowed his eyebrows, cringing. "Bye- it's Jonathan, right?"

Model Man hissed, "It's Nathaniel."

"Oh. Bye, Nathaniel."

Connor slammed the door in Nathaniel's face.

"You're upset about something," Oliver said.

He knew Connor too well. Oliver wished he could've forgotten, use the storage in his brain for something else and move on, but he knew Connor too well.

Right now, Connor was avoiding something. Running from something. His eyes darted across the apartment, and he was exposed in front of Oliver, restraining from opening the floodgates and telling him something.

It didn't help he was coming down from a high of sex; Oliver smelled his favorite drink, his favorite club.

"Can you stay?" Connor asked, looking up, "Can you stay, for awhile?" He rested a hand on the edge of the sofa.

Their relationship ended in the living room.

Oliver was going to tell him.

"Connor, I-"

"You're upset about something too," Connor said, "you worry, I worry, we worry. I can tell, because you're wearing your glasses, which means you lost your contact lenses. You'd lose them when you were worried, too busy thinking."

Oliver brought a hand up to his face, feeling the frames of his glasses touching his ear. He'd forgotten to get a new pair, and they gave him a headache.

"And when I'm worried or upset, I have sex. I go and pick a guy and bring him home." Connor smiled sadly, "And you know that, because sometimes you'd ask if you were that guy."

When each of them were upset, they rambled.

I never got an answer, Oliver thought.

"It's late," Oliver took a couple steps back towards the door. Being here was strange, familiar. "And you have Chinese on the way."

"Italian, actually," Connor replied sheepishly, "Jonathan isn't the smartest."

"Nathaniel," Oliver corrected.

Connor sank down into his sofa, closing his eyes. "Whatever."

Oliver chuckled.  
-  
Oliver was eating his pasta in silence.

He'd been doing for the past fifteen minutes.

When they were together, there were days and nights where they couldn't seem to say enough, as if neither of them knew too many words or not enough.

"Gemma called me," Connor explained, shoving another bite of pizza into his mouth. He cleared his throat, and grabbed the pillow closest to him, calming as it settled against his chest. "She said that, well, they read the book for her book club."

"Oh," Oliver whispered. He'd met Connor's family once, and once only. It was Christmas, and his sister and mother flew in from Michigan to meet the mystery man, eager and nervous.

"I hope he stays with you," Gemma had said wistfully, watching her younger brother from the kitchen island. "I swear to god, my brother throws away the things that are best for him as if they're pieces of scrap paper."

Oliver didn't know how to respond. Connor was laughing at something his mother said, and he did the thing where his body shook and he slapped his knee and Oliver wanted to hear nothing else and take a picture of it, so he could keep it close.

"I mean, he doesn't mean too, sometimes." Gemma continued, "I think it's just a reflex, or something. Maybe he thinks he needs to take out the trash before he's thrown in the trash can and the lid is closed."

Oliver still didn't know how to respond. He naively blamed it on the fact Gemma was relishing in the luxury of a child-free weekend.

"It's been that way since our dad left, and he's tried to fix it. God knows he tried." She was thinking of something Oliver didn't know, yet. Then, Gemma put on a comforting smile and gripped Oliver's arm. "Don't let him throw you away, Oliver. Please."

Oliver was stupid to think Connor wouldn't.

"I didn't tell her about us calling off the enga- about us ending things." Connor stumbled on his words, flustered. "I never got around to it."

"I'm guessing she knows, now?" Oliver asked.

"Oh, she knows."

"I'm sorry, Connor." Oliver apologized, "I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry."

Connor tore his gaze from the pillow, shrugging. "That's the funny thing, Ollie- you shouldn't have to say sorry. I'm the one who inspired the book, anyway. I'm the one who's in the wrong." A hand slowly snuck from behind the pillow and across the coffee table, reluctant. "Just stop saying you're sorry- I don't want you to be."

"Okay," Oliver said, "sorry. I mean- shit, sorry."

Connor melted, allowing himself to laugh. "God, you're still really awkward, you know that?"

Oliver mumbled, "I'm working on it."

Annalise recommended a therapist. It was working. Somewhat.

Was Connor still seeing his?

Oh, Annalise.

The book.

"You believe in my writing, don't you?"

Connor had been laying down, but he leaned forward, inching closer. "I believe in you, not your writing."

Rip off the band aid, Oliver.

"Annalise wants another book," he began, and, as if the detonator on the bomb came to an end, Oliver exploded. "Annalise knows the book is about you because she had Frank follow you and had Bonnie stalk my social media accounts and Annalise wants another book about you and me and us and Annalise-"

"Oliver," Connor raised a hand, defeated. "I know."

What-

"Annalise called me before you came over." Connor answered, "I guess she got my number, too."

What the fuck-

"If you don't want me to or don't think I should just say the words and I’ll-" Oliver started- why did nothing go as he planned? Why couldn't one thing just stick to the route he planned ahead?

"Ollie, I think you should."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This one is doozy! I always thought the Connor used sex as coping based on what we've seen in the show so... yeah. Also, if you caught the hint™ I hid in this about their past, good job. Thanks so much for reading again, and comments are great! I love them and you!!


	6. The Man in the Doorway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... it’s been over a year since I updated this fic. The inspiration died, and I couldn’t revive it. I apologize to all my readers. If you want to stay, please do! I think you guys are great. This chapter is pretty much filler, but I had nothing else to do with it. It takes place about a day or so before the last chapter. Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

_“Do you know,” he said, when silence was left lingering in the doorway, shadow reflected on the wall, “how much I loved you?”_

_”Yes,” I said, “because you never told me you stopped.”_

  * _Greedy Gods, pg 85. “The Man in the Doorway.”_



Connor never wanted to admit how often he dreamt of Oliver.

He'd never admit how when he closed his eyes, the first thing racing through his scattered, insomniac brain was Oliver's smile, the first time he saw him at the gallery opening, holding a phone and wearing a tie that didn't quite match his shoes.

He'd never admit that the last thought before he woke in the morning was Oliver beside him, phantom touches running down his body, leaving cold spots and shivers. Oliver's hands on his cheek, in his chair, down his chest. Connor always woke alone.

He'd never admit that he was haunted by the ghost of him- Oliver, standing in the courthouse, dialing his number and calling out his name in the empty hallways. Oliver, the devastation and ruin of him in the living room, screaming and crying, but never saying terrible things. He was never that cruel.

He was never as cruel as Connor.

Connor didn't need to think about how cruel he was- he just knew it, deep down, a gut feeling that rose in his chest as he grew up, when a boy locked eyes with him and Connor knew what he wanted, and knew what he could give.

He gave everything or nothing.

Nothing, more often than he wanted to say.

But he tried to give everything to Oliver.

And sometimes, everything is underestimated. It was meant to be limitless and bountiful, like water in the ocean or the miles of sky, but it ran out when you least accepted it to. It stopped and crashed while you were trying to turn the other way. It disappeared the second you turned your back.

He simply miscalculated.

His phone was ringing on the bedside table, shaking as it vibrated, the bright screen illuminating the room, florescent and clashing with the streaming sunlight from the window.

"Connor Walsh, where the fuck were you?"

For a second, he almost forgot where he was, almost imagined he was in Oliver's apartment. But his eyes spotted the skyline of skyscrapers, his clothes discarded on the floor, his jeans heaped into a pile by a watch that wasn't his.

If he was in Oliver's, he wouldn't feel this lonely.

"You missed class," Michaela scolded on the other line, "again. I covered for you ass, but only because I still have an ounce of human decency- which is rapidly decreasing. Seriously, why go through all the trouble of applying to law school if you weren't even-"

"Michaela," Connor said. His voice was hoarse, and he tasted red wine on his breath- his favorite brand, some vintage he couldn't pronounce the name of.

"Oliver was over last night."

He pictured Michaela stopping in her tracks on the campus lawn, her feet coming to a halt and her heels sticking into the grass. "Oh my god."

"He wants to write another book about me."

"Oh my god!"

"I know," Connor sighed as he reached for his discarded shirt on the other side of the mattress, "it's a bit exciting."

"What the fuck did you tell him? What did you even say?"

At first, he didn't know what to say. Oliver looked so earnest, so pained, as if this was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, as if just asking the question was torture, another knife in his skin.

"If you don't want me to," he said, "or don't think I should just say the words and I’ll-

And Connor found his answer flying out of his mouth like a wild bird free from its cage, its feathers ruffled and scattered across the hardwood floor.

"Ollie, I think you should."

"You told him yes?!"

He turned down the volume as Michaela practically screeched, "I had nothing else to say."

"Oh my god, Connor. I can't tell if you're a genius or an idiot."

He smirked, "I think I'm a genius."  
-  
Annalise knew who Connor Walsh was the minute he walked into her office. He was the kind of boy who would destroy your life: his thick head of hair, his subconsciously confident stride as he walked over to her secretary’s desk, hands in his pockets, right next to where he’d keep your heart. Actually, right next to her client’s heart.

She was doing this for Oliver, she told herself. She was doing this because it was what was best for him, what was best for his career. He manifested his heartbreak- his love and devotion- to Connor Walsh into one of her best sells. The book helped heal him, stitch up his wounds, wrapped a bandage around them and allowed him to stand up straight, crack his gentle smile.

Or, at least that was what she thought.

That was what she thought until she spotted Connor Walsh out of the corner of her eye, strutting toward the signing table with a paperback of Greedy Gods.

That was what she thought until Oliver hadn’t returned her calls the next days, the next several hours after leaving the green room of a Barnes in Noble in TriBeCa, Connor in tow.

That was what she thought, until she realized she should have taken a closer look at Oliver, at the story he told and gave to her.

The first time they met, after Annalise had spent the whole night absorbed in Greedy Gods, she smacked the manuscript onto her desk, asked a simple question.

“Who’s it about?”

Oliver looked up at her, almost jumped in his seat, staring at her, as if she wasn’t real, or he didn’t know where he was.

“Go ahead. I won’t tell anyone.” She shrugged and leaned back into her chair, “But, you might have to.”

“It’s about-“ He sniffled, but tried to hide it. Annalise felt more sorry for him by the minute. “It’s about an ex. An ex boyfriend.”

It’s about an ex boyfriend, he said.

An ex boyfriend who became his fiancé.

She’d had Frank dig up the city hall records, scoured hundreds and thousands of names until she found it, found the gold.

Oliver Hampton and Connor Walsh, meant to be married on October 21.

Meant to be didn’t mean it worked out.

“Annalise,” her secretary tapped on the edge of the door, looking over her shoulder, “Connor Walsh is here to see you?”

Annalise was doing what was best.

She always was.

“Send him in.”  
-  
“Have a seat, Mr. Walsh.”

Connor knew who this woman was before she introduced herself: Annalise Keating, Oliver’s publicist. She was the one who pushed them both into a green room after Connor showed up a the signing, yelling into a mouthpiece at some poor, unsuspecting woman named Bonnie.

He slowly walked over to the chair across from her, wondered how many people sat here and had their lives changed or ruined. Wondered if Oliver had smiled when she changed his, wondered if he thought of him.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Annalise’s eyes examined him as he sat, looking him over as if she were reading a new manuscript. “Law students never have the easiest schedules.”

His visit hadn't even reached the two minute mark, and he was already at a loss for words. How did she know that?

Oh, Oliver must have told her.

Oh, she must have known everything.

“Miss. Keating,” Connor began.

She put up her hand, “Annalise, please.”

He was so nervous that he thought he was about to shrivel into his seat, like a crumpled piece of paper. Annalise would throw him in the trash, and maybe he deserved it. Maybe this she was going to chew him up and spit him out, all for Oliver. Anything for him.

“Annalise, why am I here?”

_Why is Oliver not here? What do you want with me?_

She nodded, “Alright. Let's talk.”

She sat up straight and leaned forward.

“Let's talk about what happened between you and Oliver Hampton.”

Annalise knew everything.

Connor tamed his emotions, tried to keep the emotion off his face at the mention of his name. They hadn't spoken, hadn't see each other since the day at the coffee shop. Connor was in a battle between calling him or letting it be- they weren't meant to be friends, how could they ever be? It was possible. Not after what Connor did. Not after how it ended.

It had been five days since he last saw Oliver’s face, but it felt like years.

Before that day, it was.

“Do you want to start, or should I?” Annalise was waiting.

“I- I don't know,” Connor said.

“You don't know what?”

“I don't know what to tell you. What you'd like to know.” There was a chest full of things he could say, things he could spill onto her desk. He could start at the beginning: the party, making out in a bathroom stall. Their first date, their first time. All of the first. But you don't remember the first the most- you remember the last. The last time he saw Oliver, the last night they slept in the same bed. The last time he said “I love you”, the last time he left.

“Well,” Annalise replied, “the end is always juicer than the beginning, isn't it?”

They were about to turn down a road Connor never wanted to walk down again.

It was simple, really. “Well, we were together, and then we weren’t.” He could tell this without the awkward in betweens, the silence and the pauses as he’d struggle to compose himself.

“I’m sure the story has a lot more underneath the surface,” Annalise didn’t seem impressed, saw right through him. “Every one does.”

“Who said so?” God, why couldn’t they all just let it go?

God, why couldn’t he let it go?

Annalise reached into a drawer underneath the desktop, and revealed her weapon, as if she didn’t even need to look, feel around to find it.

“The book Oliver wrote.”

Just glancing at the cover twisted something inside him, tangled his heart up like a ball of yarn.

“Okay, what the hell do you want, Annalise?”

“It’s simple,” Annalise began. “We both want things. You want Oliver, I want a second New York Times bestseller.”

_You want Oliver._

_She’s right, Connor._

_All you want is Oliver._

_All you want is to have him back._

_Even if he doesn’t want you, even if he never will._

_All you want is to have him back._

“I won’t let you use me.”

“Well,” argued Annalise, “if you think about it, you’re using me. Using me, using this book, to get you and Oliver back together. Imagine it: Greedy Gods is the beginning and end of the relationship. The second book is the reconstruction, the resurrection.”

How could he turn down an offer like that?

How could he turn down a second chance?

Connor had one question.

“Does Oliver know?”

“No. I’m only asking him if you say yes. We both know he’ll only agree if you’re okay with it.”

“Yes,” Connor said.

 _He doesn’t want to hurt me like I hurt him_.

“And We’re both goddamn lucky you’re not suing us for defamation of character.” Annalise added.

“Character can’t be defamed if it’s true,” Connor remarked.

Annalise smirked, motioned for her secretary to come and open the door, “Thank you, Mr. Walsh.”

She gave him a second chance, and he grabbed it with both hands.

“It’s been a pleasure.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, nothing too exciting! Just a way to ease myself into this fic, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is crap but I'm really excited about this idea! Oliver's POV is really hard for me, so let's see how this goes. Thanks for reading!


End file.
